


Rest for the Wicked

by Rollthedice



Category: The Yogscast
Genre: Gen, Multi, Sort of? - Freeform, Suicide, also knifes, and voodoo, basically just lots of sadness, hatsome is implied, not sure how to describe it, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-06
Updated: 2014-11-06
Packaged: 2018-02-24 09:14:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2576120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rollthedice/pseuds/Rollthedice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Okay so I’ve had this au running through my head for forever now, where Kim and Duncan have taglocked all of the Sirs and created voodoo dolls for them which Kim is using to kill them off. Then I thought of the whole last survivor thing and one of them having to face off against Kim for the final time and wrote this now I’m sad and I’m sharing it so you can all be sad too! uwu</p><p><em>“I am not afraid-” </em> He said. His voice was quiet and weak, like ash slipping through his fingertips. <em>“Of death.” </em></p>
            </blockquote>





	Rest for the Wicked

**Author's Note:**

> I posted this to my tumblr and people seemed to enjoy it, so I'm adding it my list on here! (My blog if you want to follow is http://owletdreams.tumblr.com)
> 
> Recommended listening: On the nature of Daylight https://www.youtube.com/v/rVN1B-tUpgs?autoplay=1

The pain flared through his chest like unceasing fire, burning deep red and amber as it consumed him. The sensation, like knife wounds stabbing brutally into his chest. A hell, a swirling inferno from which there was no escape. He couldn’t breathe, the black night suffocating him under a curtain of sky and he wondered why there were no stars to guide him home.

She stood before him, manic grin on her face and voodoo doll in her hand. Did he deserve this? Maybe. But that doesn’t mean he had to accept it. He choked, coughing out volcanoes of blood and tears stung his eyes, waiting like soldiers on the front line for an order. For a purpose.

 

This was his end.

 

He lay crippled, shaking, gasping on the floor. Reaching out for some unknown comfort that would not come. How did he get to this point? They were kings. Rulers. Gods, in their own eyes at least. A burst of pain shot through him again to the sound of her cackling and he hated her in that moment, hated what she was, hated what she had done. They may have made weaponry, nukes and bombs to make the whole world quiver. But she was the monster, her and that scientist. They would pay. They would kneel.

 

The pain blazed through every bone, every muscle in his broken body. Wounds too deep to heal, but he was used to that by now. Some wounds don’t heal in time. Like loss. Loss changes people. Creates monsters out of men. Beasts out of heroes. It draws vengeance, revenge from the gentlest of people. He was already a beast, he knew that. He knew that with all the things he had done, all the things his friends had done. He knew they would burn. He knew there was no solace, no blinding light for them. But it didn’t matter, none of that mattered. Because if they had to walk through hell, they would damn well walk through it together.

 

But what happens when a ‘beast’ loses that one last part of him that made him whole, made him sane. What happens when you tear the flesh away from a survivor. When you cut into the very soul, the very essence of who they are and leave them hollow?

 

He had watched his friends die. Fallen to the floor in crumpled heaps the same way he is now. The only people he ever trusted, perhaps even loved. His friends. His brothers in all but blood. He had seen the manic glint in her eyes and watched the life in his friends eyes die out. He alone had heard their last words. Had seen their suffering. She knew nothing. To her they were nothing. To Ross they were everything.

 

He could hear her footsteps now, padding softly against the forest floor and he was reminded of how his friends would never walk again. Never laugh again. Never sing those same old songs again. That hurt more than any wound she could ever inflict would.

 

Maybe he knew this would happen. Knew she would win. There was no chance, after he lost everything…He had nothing left to fight for, but plenty to die for. His friends were waiting for him, calling to him. The flames of hell were rising, licking and curling around his mind and he knew where he belonged. He had a long walk ahead of him. He would see them again. Would hold them again. She may win, may wipe him off the face of the earth but he would be the real victor. He would get what he desired most, and when her time comes to fall you can be damn sure that they’ll be waiting for her.

 

She says something then. Her voice like salt in an open wound. Ross couldn’t hear her, didn’t want to hear her for her words would offer no comfort. No grace. He longed for the voices of his friends. For the bickering, the jokes, the names. He could barely remember Smith’s laugh, how his eyes crinkled at the edges and lit up with a spark of joy. Could barely remember how Trott would turn away and act displeased or annoyed but you could practically hear the grin on his face. But he would remember the look on her face when he plunges a dagger into her hollow heart. He owed them that much, all he needed was the chance.

 

She circled him like pray. Still talking. Still stabbing the doll and Ross tore at the grass beneath him. The once lush forest green turned to a graveyard in his palms and he felt like crying. He heard her mention death, sorrow. He couldn’t help but laugh. The sound croaking out like sandpaper, tearing at the flesh of his throat and he coughed up lungfuls of blood, staining his teeth crimson red. The more she dug into the doll the more he laughed. Maybe this was what madness felt like.

 

 _“I am not afraid-”_ He said. His voice was quiet and weak, like ash slipping through his fingertips. _“Of death.”_ It hurt him to speak, Ross clutched at his chest in agony, her needle hovered directly over his heart but he just laughed. Taunting her. Daring her. He gripped a knife in his free hand, concealed in his pocket and he grinned demonically at her, fingertips dancing over the edge of the blade. _“I am not afraid of anything. Not anymore.”_ Ross stared at her as directly as he could with his wavering, blurred vision. His right eye swollen and bloodied but it was as if the starless night sky had lent her light to him for his eyes shone brighter than any hope or love could have done. His eyes shone with fulfillment. With the stuff great stories are conjured of. With a spark so bright no amount of pain or misery could extinguish it. It shone with the memory of his friends. The past, the present, the future they had planned together and in that moment Ross was no longer alone.

 

 _“I am not afraid of dying.”_ He said again. _“But you are afraid of living.”_ He knew he was right. They were her goal, her aim. There is nothing left now but an empty base with cobwebs forming in the corners where they worked. Echos of the past treading the hallways. Gape silo doors that will be closed forever. Perhaps in the darkness you could still hear them. Hear the whisper of a laugh, the trace of a song. Perhaps they would be remembered, their home preserved in their memory. He doubted it. They were the villains of this tale, or so they were told. But sooner or later her dolls would fail her. She would see the monster in her own eyes. He pitied the living. There is no worse thing on this earth than being alive. Pity the living. They know the price of everything but the value of nothing. They do not know true freedom. He took the knife from his pocket. Steel glinting under moonlight and he could see the first of the night’s stars forming in the reflection. He grinned a bloodied grin one last time and raised the blade above his head. She moved the needle down towards his heart but he was quicker. The blade slashing through the air and embedding itself in flesh.

 

Ross let out a shuddering gasp as blood seeped from his wound. The knife stuck out like a flag above his heart and he allowed his eyes to close. He could have killed her. Could have ripped her limb from limb. Could have removed the very tongue she used to badmouth his friends. But he refused to die by her hand. Like most kings, his victory must be his undoing. Though he may not wear a crown of gold, or rule kingdoms whether fair or harsh. He was a king of men, they all were. He would not allow her the release of death. Living with blood on your hands is far harder than lying in it. She would suffer the way they did, but slowly. Irreversibly.

 

The night sky cloaked him in a sea of black and pushed him under the waves where the current was strong but he remained unafraid. He would walk with his friends soon. They would march together as one. Things wouldn’t seem so bad if they were there, together. He preferred it this way, after all, he would rather walk with his friends in the dark, than alone in the light.

 

They were the heroes, the gospels, the reckless. They were the young, the wild, the sinners. One and the same, yet so unlike. There would be no songs written about them. No story dedicated to their memory. Their resting places would change over time. Weeds would grow and footsteps will cross. There is no closing comfort for the world and it’s loss. But they have each other until the end of time.

 

And after all, that’s enough for them.


End file.
